Mr. Hawley thrust his hands deep into his trousers pockets, where he thoughtfully jingled some loose silver.
“Better let me handle the ribbons,” he advised. “I c’n git the paces out o’ him without ha’f killin’ him, ’n’ that’s more’n some folks c’n do. I ain’t anxious, though, ’s fur’s that’s concerned. But you’d have the fun o’ lookin’ on from the grand stand.”
“There’s something in that,” admitted David.
“If y’ never drove in a race,” pursued Mr. Hawley, “y’ don’t want t’ begin t’-day. There’ll sure be a ruck o’ horses in that free-fer-all.”
David glanced over the rail at the spectacle of half a dozen horses hitched to light sulkies and driven at a furious rate of speed, which at that moment dashed past.
“Them’s the two-year-olds,” vouchsafed Mr. Hawley. “I ain’t speshully int’rested in seein’ ’em go it. Don’t b’lieve in racin’ colts m’self. It’s too much like givin’ a man’s work t’ a boy. Breaks ’em down, like es not, b’fore they’ve had a fair chance.”
He glanced kindly at Jimmy.
“Well, son,” he went on, “how d’ you like the fair?”
“I like it,” Jimmy said shyly. “I like the music an’ the horses an’ the flags ’n’—’n’ everythin’.”